Butterflies
Love eludes me now. I am chasing after butterflies that go nowhere but up and into the sky. Perhaps I need some sort of net to catch them, bring them home, make them mine. Ah but how could I ever trap such creatures. I want them to come to me on their own. I want them to want to be mine. I am trying to be mindful of my life, moment by moment, but it is proving hard as minutes turn to hours to days and I lose track of where I was the moment before. It is only here when I write that I am fully engaged and fully where I need and want to be.
It is Sunday, and I hate Sundays. They are a precursor to Monday. Saturday sits alone in between Friday and Sunday. It has nothing of the week before or ahead attached to it. Sunday begets Sunday night and that means you wake up to the week. Friday begets Saturday morning and that is when the day is all alone and untouched by the week. Why am I so anxious about the week? It is a time when no time is my own and when I am somewhat owned by another, my job. Each day I spend 9 hours of my life unengaged and acting as a robot would with no emotion and no sense of the day outside. I watch the clock to see how much more time I have left to be this automaton and the days seems to last for years. Every day is like this, until Friday comes and then comes a brief end to my wasted hours. Then comes Saturday.
I rue each day that I must spend wasting the precious hours of my life. I will never get them back you see. They are gone. Each week, 45 hours, gone. I imagine what could I do with 45 hours a week and the options are endless! I could learn a new language in one week and begin a novel in the next. Every day would be a Saturday, full of possibilities. I am aware that 99% of the world spends their lives in just this way, but that doesn't make it any easier for me to do it. And somehow the paycheck at the end of the week doesn't matter because I got paid to be a robot, not to share my talents with the rest of the world. I wish I got paid on Saturdays, for those are the days of my dreams.
It is Sunday, and I hate Sundays. They are a precursor to Monday. Saturday sits alone in between Friday and Sunday. It has nothing of the week before or ahead attached to it. Sunday begets Sunday night and that means you wake up to the week. Friday begets Saturday morning and that is when the day is all alone and untouched by the week. Why am I so anxious about the week? It is a time when no time is my own and when I am somewhat owned by another, my job. Each day I spend 9 hours of my life unengaged and acting as a robot would with no emotion and no sense of the day outside. I watch the clock to see how much more time I have left to be this automaton and the days seems to last for years. Every day is like this, until Friday comes and then comes a brief end to my wasted hours. Then comes Saturday.
I rue each day that I must spend wasting the precious hours of my life. I will never get them back you see. They are gone. Each week, 45 hours, gone. I imagine what could I do with 45 hours a week and the options are endless! I could learn a new language in one week and begin a novel in the next. Every day would be a Saturday, full of possibilities. I am aware that 99% of the world spends their lives in just this way, but that doesn't make it any easier for me to do it. And somehow the paycheck at the end of the week doesn't matter because I got paid to be a robot, not to share my talents with the rest of the world. I wish I got paid on Saturdays, for those are the days of my dreams.
posted by Mireille at 1:49 PM
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